


Après Tout Ce Temps? Toujours.

by KittyMotor, mintboy (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Angst, French Revolution, Humanstuck, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Reincarnation, Romance, Visions in dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 04:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16967898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyMotor/pseuds/KittyMotor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mintboy
Summary: At age twelve, Dave begins getting strange dreams that allude to a life he once had. Now a struggling young-adult that has long abandoned his interest in such childish things, his life is changed forever when he delivers pizza to a very familiar face.Co-written with KittyMotor, my boyfriend. Chapters are alternating in point-of-view; he writes Karkat's chapters, and I write Dave's.





	Après Tout Ce Temps? Toujours.

The first thing I notice is the smell.

It reeks of ash and urine – and it’s like a smack to the face. The room is dark; overwhelmingly so. Even as I blink, my eyes don’t adjust. I try to turn my head, some vague attempt at surveying my surroundings, but it’s impossible to move. It should scare me – but all I can feel is a deep sort of dread; a sort of melancholy that is hard to describe.

I’m seated on a stool that is so short it forces my knees up by my chest; I’m a lot taller than I remember being, actually. My limbs are long and spindly, like twigs dragged out to the point they could snap. My skin hugs my bones so tightly I can’t help but consider that I’m not healthy. 

Even at twelve years old – raised on canned ravioli and flat soda – I know myself to have more muscle than this. I’ve trained so often I’ve become a sort of thin that could be called a kind of pre-pubescent  _ lean _ ; not quite malnourished but not quite healthy. Here, though, I can imagine that my ribs are visible underneath my grimy, ripped clothing. 

My head moves down, an awkward movement to express my sadness, maybe. It reveals more about the scene, but only heightens my curiosity. The ground is bare, despite being inside; it’s dusty with unsettled dirt. I’m barefoot, and what is visible of my arms and legs are crisscrossed with ugly scars. My skin is just as grimy as my clothes, covered in a thin layer of dust that is so ingrained into my skin it looks like I’ve gotten a tan. By my feet is a half-finished horseshoe and an iron poker. 

I wrack my mind for a moment, before deciding this must be some kind of blacksmith’s shop. When I raise my head again – still not under my control – I can see the window and door are boarded up. The only light in the room is coming from between the cracks of the wood, which explains why it is so dark. 

Suddenly, my eyes move to the center of the room. There’s a man standing there, in the dark. His arms are crossed over his chest. I can’t make out the features of his face, but his hair is clearly messy, and he’s dressed in old-fashioned clothes that are much fancier than mine. 

I realize that being able to see this much detail in this darkness means that I’m not wearing my shades. Bro wouldn’t like that. 

“There must be a way we can get around this,” I say, desperate. I didn’t choose those words – they spilled from my mouth, just as my body has been moving without my orders. They aren’t in English, either; I think I’m speaking French. I don’t remember the last time I’ve heard someone speak French, and perhaps, even then, it was just in movies. Yet, it comes so naturally to me, here – and I understand every word with almost sickening clarity. 

“How?” the man hisses, speaking the same language. Again, I am somehow able to understand him. His voice is clearly distressed, and he begins to pace as he continues, “you know how this is going to end, David. You’ve seen what they’ve done to people – people like me.”

_ No, I don’t know how this is going to end _ , I want to say. I feel something stir in my stomach, a sort of fear that fits into the sadness like a puzzle-piece. I can’t help but consider, in the back of my mind, that no one has really ever called me David before. I feel confusion try to force its way into the feeling that I might cry, but my own personal emotions feel dulled, as if they have been shoved onto the back-burner. Most strongly, I feel a kind of a heartache that I can’t describe. 

“You aren’t like those people,” I respond, my voice cracking as tears begin to dribble down my cheeks. Why am I crying? Striders aren’t supposed to cry. Bro would be angry, “you’re a good person. You’re just an artist. They can’t –”

I wipe my face, hastily, choking down another sob.

“You can’t go, Karsci. I can’t lose you.”

I don’t know where he’s going, but I feel the sadness in my heart deepen. It overtakes my chest, as if it’s wrapping its arms around my heart and lungs and pulling them into an embrace that’s too tight. I don’t even know who he is – well, at least, I don’t think I do. His name is Karsci, and he’s going away somewhere, and I’m  _ sad _ about it. But why am I so sad?

The man – Karsci – walks over to me, kneeling on the dusty floor. He takes my hands in his own, which are wet with my tears. I can see his face, now, and he’s looking at me with an expression I’ve never seen before. It’s so soft. His brow is knitted tightly, his lips shaking, and in his eyes is a sort of bittersweet love that rips at my chest. He’s looking at me like he’s lost all the hope he’s ever had, but like it doesn’t really matter. My eyes fall to our hands. His are soft and stained with paint, and his fingers intertwined perfectly with mine – which are calloused and dirty. 

My hands are shaking. Why am I shaking?

“You know I don’t want to leave you,” he murmurs, his voice broken and wretched, “but we can’t escape this one, my love. Treason is a hefty charge.”

He calls me his ‘love’, and it feels strange but right. I don’t know what the word ‘treason’ means, but it can’t be good – his voice is so very sad, and I want nothing more than to try and comfort him, but I can’t control my own movements. And, even if I could, with the misery stirring in my stomach, I know this is hurting me as well. I want to run away from here. I don’t want to feel this. 

“We have to find a way,” I beg of him, moving my hands to his face. I cup his cheeks in my fingers, which ache and are stained with soot. He leans into my touch, closing his eyes. Tears spill down his cheeks. 

“I don’t think we can,” he whispers. 

I close my own eyes, pressing our foreheads together. The moment feels like the ending to a very sad movie, or a song about something you haven’t experienced but feel very suddenly like you understand. Emotions I can’t comprehend paint every inch of my body, as if to turn me into some melancholy portrait of a life I’ve never known. 

Suddenly, there’s a loud rapping at the door. It’s urgent, and when my gaze shoots over, I feel a fear I can’t quite grasp flood my body. The light pouring in from between the boards of wood is blocked by whoever so desperately wants to enter the shop, and a richer darkness overtakes us. It seems to leak inside of me, as well – as if the misery I’ve succumb to has suddenly deepened tenfold. Karsci pulls away from me, receding further into the building. His hands cover his mouth, and his shoulders are shaking. 

I stand, too, and there’s a dull ache that accompanies my every movement. I rush to Karsci, wrapping my arms around him. He shoves his face into my shoulder. He is trembling terribly, his breaths quick and frightened. I shush him softly, trying to comfort him despite the panic rushing through my chest. Choking down a song, I hum to him softly – a tune I don’t know. 

The door suddenly creaks, just before it bursts. Light floods the room. Karsci screams, and I – 

I wake up. 

I run a hand through my hair, which is damp. I’m in the apartment. It’s unbearably hot, like always, and the sun of the early morning is blaring through my open window. I shift, sitting up, and rub my eyes. I’m finally in control again. I’m in just my boxers, which are sticking to my sweat-soaked skin. 

Groaning, I roll my shoulders. There’s a lingering panic in my chest, but I shove it down. The light dances off the wood of my desk and gleams on my turntables. I glance down at my hands. They are smaller than they were in the dream, and much cleaner. There’s more meat on my bones, and I’m not quite as scarred. 

I push myself off of my bed, sifting through the crap on my floor with shaking hands. Finally, my fingers brush across a small, leather-bound book. I had been writing song lyrics in it, long before I’d regressed to the shitty rap I make to upkeep the persona which I’ve so delicately crafted under the hand of my brother. It’s better this way, but that’s beside the point. 

I flip through to an empty page, then finger around the pile of clothes I found it under for a pen. 

The next ten minutes of the morning are spent writing down the exact details of the strangely vivid dream – before I forget them. Typically, I forget most of my dreams, only gathering the details and overarching ideas that seemed to make sense. This, though … this was different. In my twelve years of life – which isn’t long, I’ll admit – I haven’t had such a clear dream, where I remember each and every detail. 

After furiously recounting everything I remember, I shove the book under my mattress, taking a deep breath and walking over to my computer. 

In a vain attempt to understand the dream, I search for the definition of “treason”, which is the following: “the crime of betraying one's country, especially by attempting to kill the sovereign or overthrow the government.” That would explain the seriousness of the situation. I bite my lip. If Karsci committed treason, why would I be so worried about him? Was the government wrong? Was he really just an artist? Why were we speaking French?

My fingers linger over the keyboard. I’m tempted to search for more – though I’m not sure what. 

There’s a banging on my bedroom door, and I jump. I have to catch my breath. 

“Dave, we’ve got shit to do,” my brother’s gruff voice rings through the morning air, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of the sound of the busy streets, birds, and blaring television static coming from outside my window. I’m in Texas. I’m in the apartment. Whatever happened in that little blacksmith’s shop was just in my head.

I put the computer to sleep, running a hand through my hair and moving to get dressed. There’s not really much more digging to do, anyways. I’ve got more pressing things to worry about. Training, for one. 

It was just a dream. Nothing more than a dream. 


End file.
